I’m a big kid now. . . . Where are
they, already?
Straddling that divide between adolescent bravado and childhood
neediness, Supermen and Flappers prepared for a midsummer return to being sons
and daughters for two days.
During the week before Parents’ Weekend, a circuit-riding Pine Bush
barber arrived with scissors and combs, a rotary buffer polished bunkhouse
floors, irons with thick fabric cords pressed white shirts and blouses, and
extra energy went into rehearsals of almost-memorized
musical production numbers. Somewhere in that busy time, a local
photographer shot group and individual portraits for sale to the upcoming
visitors.
By mid-Saturday, cars filled the ballfield, lipstick decorated cheeks,
Brownies clicked and counselors told parents about their angels’ perfect
behavior.
For their part, campers showed off arrow and BB holes in paper targets,
colorful lanyards, copper pins with baked-enamel designs, plaster of Paris
figurines, ceramic ashtrays (yes, kids made smoking accessories then) and Red
Cross water safety certificates (“See, I’m an Intermediate
already!”)
‘Fess up now: How many moms – or you – still have camp crafts in a
closet, drawer, trunk, basement or attic?
Joyous reunions sometimes had to await agonizing driveway vigils when
time seemed to stand still.
“I remember waiting … and waiting … and being the LAST one still
waiting, sitting on the big rock at the end of the driveway into camp ’til the
big Caddy with Mommy and daddy appeared,” recalls Leslie (Cooper) Fox, who has
raised three offspring of her own. “You can imagine that I felt sad to be the
last kid still there. I guess there’s always one who has to be the last one
– but it’s not a fun moment. In my mind’s eye, I can still see myself
sitting on the rock, waiting.”
I, too, remember one heart-wrenching morning that stretched almost to
Excitement quickly replaced impatience as hand-holding tours,
introductions of new friends and open bakery boxes sweetened the day.
Confections, magazines, hugs and spending money went a long way toward erasing
memories of any homesickness, mail gaps or that day’s leisurely arrival.
Families lingered over lawn picnics, Nok Hockey matches and chats with
counselors that were a mix of parent-teacher conferences and end-of-cruise
gratuity distributions. (It’s amusing to think how grateful counselors we were
for $10 or $25.) Some campers played catch or tennis with a parent, others
demonstrated craft-making methods or took a nature stroll.
The luckiest then clambered into the family sedan for dinner at a formica-table
restaurant in town or the country-club setting of a big Ellenville hotel where
some folks stayed, while most of us had supper at the usual spot – followed by
a dazzling array of choices from the lavishly replenished candy box.
On Sunday came the stage production, a promotional message from camp
directors Gerry and Ellen Bucky, plus more picture-snapping, cash-passing and
teary embraces.
And then we reclaimed our quieter, slower-paced, less crowded campground
– while recognizing what else was gone besides our parents.
Their visit bisected the summer. We were at the midpoint, halfway through a stretch of carefree days and nights that had seemed endless at first, and that now were slipping away. How we’d savor the August weeks ahead.